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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084107">Through the Silence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole'>Enterthetadpole</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Watson, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Supportive Greg, before S4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:20:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John watched the best man he ever knew fall from the rooftop of St. Bart's but refused to give up hope that somehow Sherlock may still be alive. If he was, John would find him. </p><p>No matter what or who stood in his way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HolmesCon Writers Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Faded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts">SherlockWatson_Holmes</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Alas, another plot bunny has hit me full in the face and here we have a new Johnlock story. A huge huge thank you to<br/>SherlockWatson_Holmes for their plot idea and being willing to attack my story with their great beta work! </p><p>As always kudos and comments keep me going, and I hope that you enjoy the story!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Greg was there because no one else could be.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was becoming a habit. The type of routine that Greg endured the way others at the Yard muscled their way through evening paperwork that had to be finished before they could call it a night. To finally be able to maneuver out of the offices to blend in with the other grey faces of passersby in the heart of central London. All bundled up in scarves and long coats that every so often reminded the DI that Sherlock wasn’t the only one who wore wool and cashmere as a suit of armor. Still, it was hard to imagine a planet could exist without Sherlock Holmes at its center. The man was a force of nature who seemed to, by his brilliance alone, keep the world on exactly the correct axis. All while screaming at the top of his lungs and single-handedly pushing Anderson closer and closer to a complete nervous breakdown. </p><p> </p><p>The memories of it all felt faded like photos left out in the sun. The edges muted into warm shades of sepia tone, and somehow this made Sherlock look softer and more approachable. The coolness of his presence easier to swallow when recollections floated in and out of the last half a year. </p><p> </p><p>A half a year of nights like this where Greg checked in because of a phone call, a text, or just that intuition that made him fairly good at his job. The drive to 221B either with his own car or, on nights when he was alerted after a pint or two, with the aid of a cab ride. </p><p> </p><p>This was becoming a habit. A quiet dance that Greg knew all the steps to, even if the music was the slow funeral dirge or a waltz down memory lane. The seventeen steps up to the flat enough time for him to make sure he had the proper footwear to cut a rug until John demanded that he’d leave. </p><p> </p><p>The front door to 221B was opened just enough for Greg to know that this was going to be one of the nights that he just made sure John continued to breathe. The sliver of golden light coming from the flat created darker shadows as Greg made sure to avoid the creaky twelfth step so as not to wake up Mrs. Hudson. Of course, he was aware that she was only pretending to sleep. Probably sitting in her kitchen as she sipped a cup of now lukewarm tea and silently hoped that the noises she had heard upstairs were John just being too exhausted from another double shift at the clinic. That her texting Lestrade tonight was preventative, and nothing more. </p><p> </p><p>Greg placed a hand on the door and pressed it all the way open. His dark brown eyes shifting into the detective mode to gather information about what was out of place since the last time he had been in the flat. It looked very much the same from a week and a half ago. The front room almost unnaturally tidy with only small touches here and there that told anyone entering that someone still lived here. John’s sensible work shoes nestled in next to what had long become his chair. His coat folded up neatly on the couch that so long ago a lanky consulting detective would steeple his fingers under his chin, close his ever calculating eyes, and decipher crime scenes one grain of sand and speck of blood at a time. </p><p> </p><p>John’s twilight blue mug sat lonely on the kitchen counter; the tea long since drunk. Greg smelled what must have been Indian take away. The remnants tossed in the bin beside the kitchen sink, which meant that John had eaten tonight. Another worry Mrs. Hudson had conveyed earlier on, so at least that would provide some relief. Sherlock’s room was always locked, so Greg passed by it without even attempting to turn the knob. Its contents sealed up like a museum with only one visitor allowed in and out. Even Mycroft hadn’t tried to collect any of Sherlock’s belongings from the room. Apparently <em> sentiment </em> had become less of a nasty word when it came to John Watson’s sanity. </p><p> </p><p>Climbing up the stairs to John’s own bedroom became more of a challenge. The first empty bottle of beer laid on its side as if to warn Greg of what was to come. It was clear that John only could keep the facade of what others would call normalcy up to a certain point. The cracks always began to show in the pathway to where he slept. Usually, on nights like this when Greg had to find him and not the other way around, alcohol was always involved. John drinking alone never ended up in funny stories. Instead, they began with a flurry of angry half-formed texts and trips to placate him in grubby pubs and finished with John the worse for wear. </p><p> </p><p>Before six months ago, Greg never considered that a person could still continue to move after their heart was shattered into pieces so tiny that no amount of manpower from the Yard could find all of them. Not even with the decades of experience that was shared among all of his fellow officers. Yet Dr. John Watson wasn’t an ordinary person. Greg knew this even before he had been properly introduced to John by the man who jumped from the rooftop of St Bart’s Hospital. His suicide note embedded in the ever-growing wrinkles of the slackened mouth of the one he left behind. A vessel lying writhing in bed. His naked form surrounded by more empty bottles and a cloud of something way too broken.</p><p> </p><p>The room had taken the brunt of John’s desperation and fury. Splintered bits of wood littered the floor along with what looked like torn up pages from books and newsprint. Greg carefully stepped around as much as he could. The occasional recognition of John’s handwriting or articles with the headlines<em> Tragic Fall of a Genius </em> and <em> We Believe in Sherlock Holmes </em> fluttered in the breeze that the DI made as he moved closer to the bed. John’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His soft snores a stark contrast to the way his limbs twitched as he clung around the long and iconic coat of a dead man. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it was this sight that had Greg lose the ability to take precautions. To pause long enough to call for backup or do anything that his years of training taught him. Instead, he heard the crunch of glass and who knew what else under his shoes as he rushed forward and jostled John to wakefulness with shaking hands. John’s only response was a groan as his eyes slowly opened wide, and then he screamed out; a woeful wail of a creature that was already too far gone and begging to have its neck snapped in a final act of mercy. </p><p> </p><p>“It still smells like him,” John whispered, his clouded eyes only staring vaguely in Greg’s direction. “Why does it still smell like him? It’s fucking mad...fucking mad.”</p><p> </p><p>And it was. All of this was. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t right for any of this to be what came six months after. John rocked back and forth and Greg curled up around him. Bare skin smeared against a stained button-down and wrinkled pair of blue jeans as Greg granted John the permission to unceasingly grieve. This was becoming a habit, but never a burden. One that Greg would endure until John pulled himself into something that could survive without Sherlock Holmes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Misplaced</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mary tried so hard. She really did.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you again to the wonderful SherlockWatson_Holmes for their wonderful beta work and to the fandom for allowing me to grow as a writer. As always, comments and kudos are glorious.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It should have been a good day. It started lovely enough. Then again, they always did start off grand.  The whispered good mornings full of featherlight kisses that still smelled faintly of the previous evening. John's attention on the various ways of making her laugh and moan and sigh all collected into a bundle of courage that helped Mary know that it was time to move forward after a year and a half. </p><p> </p><p>John deserved to smile just as much as anyone else did. The rare occasions that it was<em> her </em>that was able to do or say something that granted her a small peek inside that warmth of him. The tiny glimpses into the sunny glow of what happened when he forgot about Sherlock Holmes. Never more than a passing moment or two. Mary realized that she would never be that lucky. Sherlock would always be there. Lingering around the embers of John's bandaged soul. Whether the mere memory of him was what was keeping him going was something that Mary would wonder as she watched John sleep. </p><p> </p><p>No amount of late-night touches or heated sighs could rival what the tall man with the haunting eyes gave John. Mary knew this as well, and although she absolutely had John's body, it was Sherlock's heart inside of John's rib cage. </p><p> </p><p>It was a Tuesday morning when Mary began her miscalculations. The previous night a flurry of taste and touches. Where the invitation to stay was for more than just the night. A step ahead instead of two steps back, and it was better. <em> John </em>was better. This should have been enough for her. A pat on the back for all of her hard work and dedication, but that’s not how the fate decided to deal with Mary Morstan.</p><p> </p><p>The first flaw in judgment was that she hadn't stayed in bed. Allowed John’s rhythmic breathing to lull her back to slumber and them both to begin the day together. Instead, she had gotten up. Too excited to keep still at the dazzling possibilities in front of her. The steps down to the kitchen to make coffee and eggs. As domestic as those old magazines that her mum used to leave on the table for guests to ignore. </p><p> </p><p>The second mistake was that she turned to the left. To see the door to Sherlock’s room not fully closed like it normally was. She had been inside a handful of times. Always with John right there with her. His jaw as tight as the grip that he held on her hand, but he had granted her this piece of his past. She never touched anything. She knew that would be too much for John to go through, and so she instead observed how the man that John spoke about lived. Each hung shirt in the closet and the odd stains on the carpet told a story of a mad genius who chose to die with his pride instead of living with his shame. </p><p> </p><p>She stepped into the room and felt a sudden chill. As if the iridescent eyes of Sherlock were watching every single one of her footfalls. A condemnatory specter casting deductions about her reasons for being in John’s world. Just a placeholder in a flimsy cotton nightgown and a barrage of dyed blonde waves that didn’t deserve John and never would. </p><p> </p><p>Shuddering, she let her gaze fall onto all of Sherlock’s belongings. All pristinely protected even after not being used for now close to two years. The slight scent of lemon on the wooden furniture met Mary’s smallish nose and the tiny amount of dust that John must have missed on the edge of the violin laid on the desk next to a closed laptop. </p><p> </p><p>The violin exuded expensive quality and posh aloofness, much like the man who once played it. The dark honey tone with rich auburn hues within the polished wood. The bow alongside it sturdy enough to survive midnight musings from elegant hands. Handspun lullabies to combat John's nightmares of war. </p><p> </p><p>She slipped her palm underneath the instrument, much like one would cradle a newborn baby. With slight trepidation wrapped in a soft sheen of reverence. The strings shone in the light of daybreak and reflected in her own widened eyes. Something this cherished belonged where it could always be adored. </p><p> </p><p>Yet another error to add to the pile. </p><p> </p><p>John never shouted or hit her. Those were just things he never did, nor would Mary ever allow. However, Mary knew that he unleashed his fury in other ways. There were only so many patched-up holes in walls that could be brushed off as <em>a</em> <em>bad day </em>or <em>a poorly timed fall. </em>A secret that Mary and a few others kept close to their chests, like the overly long dressing gown hidden in the back of a drawer full of socks or the reason why John promised not to drink anymore. </p><p> </p><p>The coffee hadn't even been poured into mugs before he erupted. The brimstone of John's words scorching Mary's skin and whatever else had the audacity to argue why anything should be taken out of <em>his </em>room. That she should never have crossed that particular line in the sand. Why couldn't she just leave well enough alone and be content with having so much of John already?</p><p> </p><p>Mary waited for John to come back to himself. Her eyes glassy with tears that seemed to be not falling only by her own sheer iron will. Gravity be damned if she would cry anymore over someone who was never hers in the first place. She could live with being second best. To be dwarfed in the shadow of a ghost whose eyes lit up the starry sky and whose voice still called out to John beyond the grave. </p><p> </p><p>It was the broken foundations of their future that Mary wasn't able to continue to rebuild time after time. She craved the sounds of wedding bells and giggles of babies, not the silence that John wore like a testimonial. It was over. <em> They </em>were over, and there were no amount of red roses or handwritten letters to save what they weren't meant to have. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cherished</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mrs. Hudson believed in both of them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A new chapter is here. As always thank you to you awesome readers for comments and kudos, and my wonderful beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were good days and bad days, and Martha Hudson knew how to care for both types. It came from being there when her boys would row and laugh in succession. Sherlock’s quicker movements along the floor upstairs a pulse point, and John’s slower footsteps there to make the taller man pause. She imagined their quieter nights filled with evenings of television and bowls of over buttered popcorn. Their hands pointedly never touching, but close enough to feel the warm and solid presence of the other. </p><p> </p><p><em> Not a couple </em> would always be said. Usually by John, and then echoed in a softer tone by Sherlock. There were moments when Mrs. Hudson almost believed it. When John would eventually come to stand by her front door and knock just loudly enough for her to open up her little safe haven of the world and allow him in. The chat always circled back to Sherlock Holmes. How his experiments destroyed anything that a refrigerator was meant to protect. How many more bullets ended up nestled in the folds of wallpaper and drywall. How deductions were not meant for the dates who were brave or stupid enough to enter the catacombs of 221b. </p><p> </p><p>That was before the fall that fractured more than the pavement in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Before the bevy of women John would hurry down the stairs before he knew that she was up during all matters of the day and night. Before she recognized that the drinking had gotten almost to the point of no return. Before Mary had introduced herself, and then in a whirl of pain and sadness, seemed to melt back into the streets of London. </p><p> </p><p>Now Martha lived in a waiting room. Her ears and heart both opened the occasional days when John would make up an excuse to sit across from her kitchen table. Patiently waiting for the niceties to subside so that Sherlock’s name finally broke the surface of silence, and they both could breathe once more. </p><p> </p><p>John no longer drank, and that was a good thing. John no longer felt, and that was not. </p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Hudson learned how not to press certain sore spots from years with a husband now rotting in a Florida cell. Fear <em> for </em> John instead of fear <em> of </em> John kept her tone as soft and frilly as the doilies for her teapots. All while the second man she embraced as a son, grew thinner and more fragile. His soldier stance and steady gaze all dissolving into the half-eaten sandwiches and partially sipped cups of Earl Grey.</p><p> </p><p>It was about a month after Mary that John began to wonder out loud. Little utterances that Martha would barely catch as she stood up to refill cups and get additional napkins. The tiny questions along with the crumbs of cake or biscuits that would scatter over the flowery tablecloth. Rhetorical queries as to what Sherlock would have thought of the most recent prime minister or the fact that Sally Donovan had been promoted. All subtle motivation to keep John’s mind moving before work at the clinic was set to begin. </p><p> </p><p>The familiar knock on the door became daily instead of weekly, and Martha made more elaborate dishes. Soups with fancy spices, and succulent meat dishes that permeated throughout her flat. John would stay longer, and every so often he’d giggle as she gossiped about her bridge club. Life wasn’t brilliant flashes of color anymore, but life had settled into a muted shade of something much easier on the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>They fell into their own sort of routine, and it was lovely. John would place medical books or bags from Tesco’s on the table. His head bowed as he’d read and took bites of whatever Mrs. Hudson put next to him. Every once in a while John would glance up to notice Martha looking at him and he’d smile back. The circles under his eyes wouldn’t fade away completely, but enough for Martha to stop texting Greg as often as she did. Instead, she would use the time that John was away to pull out old books that Sherlock had given her over the years. Old and dusty and he had claimed were still important enough to keep safe, but not important enough to keep on his already overstuffed bookcases. </p><p> </p><p>She’d sit them next to John instead of extra helpings of homemade scones or Yorkshire pudding. Well worn testaments that Sherlock still existed in the spaces between then and now, and John absorbed it all. The surgical hands swept the scratchy notes off to the edges of specific passages as if he just pressed hard enough, he could lift up the letters that Sherlock once thought was important enough to form. </p><p> </p><p>It was May 12th when Martha heard it. The sudden gasp from the kitchen as she made her way back in with some knitting to pass the time. John wasn’t supposed to look like that anymore. Pale-faced and eyes round and slightly glossy as he stared at an opened page of the scarlet colored book she had offered this time around. An unassuming smaller volume of some unknown origin that had been dogeared within an inch of its life. It shook in John’s grip as if it was sentient and incredibly afraid. </p><p> </p><p>“John...dear? What’s - “</p><p> </p><p>A crash of a chair hitting the floor stopped her question as John stood up. The book clutched in John’s left hand as if it was a lifeline as she watched Dr. Watson flee from her nest. A small bird that only just realized that he did indeed have wings and needed to use them. Where he went she would find out soon enough. For now, she would do what she thrived at best. Patiently waiting for when she was called for once more. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Obsessed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Anderson continues to search for answers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The comments and kudos for this story have given me life and thank you for them. Also as always thank you to the lovely and supportive SherlockWatson_Holmes for their beta work!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Philip Anderson finally left this world, he knew the two regrets that would follow him to his grave. The first was that he fought too hard for Sally Donovan, and the second that he didn't fight enough for Sherlock Holmes. Centuries might as well passed through the floor to ceiling windows of his luxury flat. His wife left him in a fury of screams and tears, while his forensics job hung on by a thread occasionally tugged by Lestrade until even that finally broke under the strain.</p><p> </p><p>Now he survived only on caffeine and cigarette smoke. The familiar background noise of papers and photos pressed into cracking drywall. Sherlock’s name and face jutted out from so many angles that no one without an understanding of his obsession would set more than two feet over the threshold. </p><p> </p><p>It had been only a number of times that Philip had seen Dr. John Watson since the funeral. The copper blonde head bowed and huddled up next to Martha Hudson. Hard to tell who was holding up the other from collapse on that ironically sunny day. Of course, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t <em> actually </em> dead. This has been apparent long before Anderson had created The Empty Hearse club whose members would swap theories and rumors about how the world's only consulting detective found a way to baffle them all. </p><p> </p><p>However, there were viable clues alongside the nonsense. Pieces that Philip Anderson would pick up with nimble fingers on spare moments of time not devoted to everyday issues like meals and rent money. Those moments were getting more and more frequent as of late, but he saw no real reason to fret. </p><p> </p><p>A knock on his front door was a rare thing nowadays. Most people who took the energy to know his home address rarely ever came around anymore. Not unless they wanted their eyes bombarded with cryptic notes until they found an excuse to leave. Only the like-minded or masochistic would be knocking even louder now. Yet apparently John Watson's insistence was enough to get Anderson allowing him in and apologetically pushing his latest theory of bungee cord and a rubber mask of Moriarty's face off of the other kitchen chair. The scraps of paper clung onto the bottom of the doctor's Loake oxford shoes. The expensive leather of them battling the contrast casualness of rigid dark blue jeans and cable knit jumper. </p><p> </p><p>Anderson didn't need to be told that John was not here on a social call. The stiffness and resolve of a soldier's quiet demand for information were in every slight muscle twitch of the man seated opposite to him. The small scarlet book pulled from the coat's inner pocket and placed onto the table. </p><p> </p><p>"I need you to look at something," John said, and Philip bathed in the calmness of the request. "Page 221, in the top right corner."</p><p> </p><p>Anderson slid the book closer and opened it up to the page and location. The writing in the area was smeared by a rushed note, but it was clearly the handwriting of Sherlock Holmes. Even if Philip hadn't spent years in forensics ignoring the detective's snarky added comments on his weekly reports to Lestrade, now two years of investigating Sherlock's supposed death would have made knowing his handwriting more than child's play. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> I left a note, but not a symphony.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Where the heart shows itself, you'll find me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He reads the words a second and then a third time. The swirling lines at odds with the sharp edges that Anderson had dealt with for so long. </p><p> </p><p>"It's a poem, obviously," John said, still so calmly. "I've looked it up but nothing that was at least traditionally published. Your...group has been chasing down every speculation and hunch out there. Does this mean anything to you? Anything that I can…"</p><p> </p><p>A pause, and then John swallowed hard. Swallowed something so painful that Anderson's own throat throbbed in sympathy. </p><p> </p><p>"I've spent the last two years accepting that he was dead. Making my mind push it in no matter how much I needed it not to be true, and I was <em> so </em>close, but then...this." John gestured to the two lines of prose as if it had foiled a well-constructed plan. "It's as if he's trying to give me hope. A flash of light in the darkness that he needs me to follow."</p><p> </p><p>Anderson nodded. This he understood. The messages from beyond the grave that he held within his grip. Helped him keep the guilt at bay at least for a while. </p><p> </p><p>"I haven't come across anything like this in my research," he admitted, and John grunted in frustration. "But Sherlock never was about arbitrary things like rhymes in the corners of manuals on various bone ailments. He was brilliant and calculating and he wanted <em> you </em> to find this."</p><p> </p><p>"But what does <em> this </em> mean?" John barked back, his fingers curled into his hair, and came very close to pulling it out. "Why the bloody <em> fuck </em> couldn't the git just <em> tell </em> me things instead of expecting me to just figure it out."</p><p> </p><p>Then John lowered his voice. The timber tremendously like Sherlock's own bored cadence as he said "Don't be dull, John...use your head. Do I have to spell <em> everything </em> out for you?"</p><p> </p><p>Anderson chuckled softly, and John gave a small smile back. "Just make a remark about my stupidity and you have him down perfectly."</p><p> </p><p>John snorted at that. </p><p> </p><p>"But in all seriousness, John...maybe the clue is more concrete than you think. Part of a bigger puzzle."</p><p> </p><p>John glanced back at the words, his eyes darting as he thought. "It's about music…"</p><p> </p><p>Anderson felt his eyebrows lower as he considered this. "Sherlock deeply respected music," he replied.</p><p> </p><p>He frowned as he watched John shake his head. The dark blue eyes still processing all of the new information. "No, it was more than respect. The way he would look when he played his violin. It was the closest thing to love that I'd ever witnessed. That violin might as well have been his…"</p><p> </p><p>John peered back up into Philip's eyes, and Anderson was suddenly reminded of that similar look that Sherlock gave when all of the pieces just snapped into place. "You just solved it, didn't you?"</p><p> </p><p>"The violin," John whispered, his face bright with visceral clarity. "The answer is his violin."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Shattered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft Holmes entering 221B was never just for a friendly visit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The next chapter of our story is here. The comments have been so kind that I have found myself crying in my morning coffee and afternoon tea more than once during this adventure. Thank you all who take the time to read, comment, and give kudos. Also another round of applause to my wonderful and patient beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes for fighting off my spelling errors and grammatical woes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were only two cameras left. Just two cameras to document the changes. To let the new routine of John Watson's environment create the necessary grooves. One camera peered around the corner, and into the kitchen. Observing the doctor as he drank tea and gin in equal measure, and the meals as gingerly handled as land mines. The second camera nestled itself in the sitting room. The angle of it low enough to catch the darkness that sunk under the eyes of the smaller man as he tapped away at his laptop. Blog posts forgotten in a hurricane of apologies and apathy, and that was for the best after all. </p><p> </p><p><em> Sentiment </em>. </p><p> </p><p>A word that seemed to leave it’s residue on every piece of furniture in the flat. The smell a seamless blend of nightly rants and daily conversations, and it <em> all </em>oozed of sentiment. </p><p> </p><p>Mycroft tapped the floor of 221b with the point of his umbrella. His polished shoes juxtaposed to the unswept floors, and his movements froze as the lock of the front door clicked open.</p><p> </p><p>“Knew knocking wasn’t your style,” John muttered as he threw his coat down towards the nearest chair. “But surprised by an <em> actual </em> break in this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Another tap of the umbrella as the elder Holmes - the <em> only </em> Holmes now - smoothly took a seat on the couch. As if he bought it centuries ago and finally came round to place it in some third formal living space in a summer mansion. John feared that the prickly entitlement might just pierce the cushions. </p><p> </p><p>“And good afternoon to you as well, Dr. Watson. I assume that your visit with Philip Anderson was beneficial?”</p><p> </p><p>The effect of this question was subtle. The twitch from John’s intermittent tremor in his left hand masked by closing it into a fist that longed to find a fresh target. Perhaps a face in this instance.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you here?” </p><p> </p><p>John had advanced a step towards Mycroft as he tried to get more comfortable. The doctor’s eyes cold and hateful in ways that could penetrate bulletproof materials. Could break bones while they were named.  </p><p> </p><p>“For your sanity,” Mycroft replied. “Or what’s left of it.”</p><p> </p><p>A high pitched laugh ricocheted through the room. A laugh that was not assisting in Mycroft’s assessment that he might have come a bit too late to save anything left from the void of Sherlock Holmes. A younger brother whose icy stare and heated words still occupied both the crevices of the leather sofa and the chambers of a doctor’s soul.</p><p> </p><p>“Your cameras and audio bugs aren’t enough to give you a good show then?”</p><p> </p><p>Another laugh, but more grounded. The grip on the handle of the umbrella went tighter. John smirked, eyes flitting from Mycroft’s eyes to the umbrella.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” John confirmed. “Known about them for a while. Didn’t bother to break them or report you because I knew it wouldn’t have mattered. That’s what you do, right? What you need to do to feel in control. Just another fish in a - “</p><p> </p><p>The last part of the accusation was lost to the sound that Mycroft Holmes made when his patience had run dry. The resemblance to Sherlock was uncanny, and one wondered if pacing was a hereditary trait. Mycroft dropped his umbrella along with any lingering politeness. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve tried to give you space and the time that you've needed,” Mycroft snapped. "Been tolerant of your vices and overlooked your sexual proclivities."</p><p> </p><p>"How very respectful of you," John barked back. The sarcasm heavily coated over all of the words. "Should I bow before your benevolence now, or wait until my good suit comes back from the cleaners?" </p><p> </p><p>Something quaked in the pit of Mycroft's stomach at the level of the incredulity of it all. The stance of the soldier in front of him with arms crossed and chin tilted up. Mycroft was heavily reminded of their first meeting years ago. Back then he had only slightly miscalculated the stubbornness of Dr. John Watson. That was not a mistake he would ever make again. </p><p> </p><p>"Since I didn't get a clear answer the first time, why are you here?" </p><p> </p><p>Silence shouldn't be full of this much noise. The small crackles of electrical intensity that would kill lesser men. Yet both of them somehow were still able to stand upright. </p><p> </p><p>"To make you an offer," Mycroft answered. "That will make both of our lives less…complicated."</p><p> </p><p>He pulled a light blue envelope out of his inner coat pocket. John's eyes followed every movement of it as Mycroft placed it on the coffee table in front of them. </p><p> </p><p>"A check that will keep you very well off for the next few years. To leave here and do what will assist you in being more than what I've witnessed on those video clips. You deserve that for being my little brother's…" </p><p> </p><p>Mycroft paused and gulped back what tasted too strongly of salt to be anything but that. </p><p> </p><p>"...his beacon of light for so long."</p><p> </p><p>A flicker of something like bright fire in the irises of John's eyes, and then back to the more familiar expression of disdain returned. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm not leaving here," John said. His voice was somewhat muffled by the clench in his teeth. "This was his home. This is still <em> my </em> home." </p><p> </p><p>Sentiment. It destroyed people on the molecular level. Broke the body down until the subject was too far gone to notice. </p><p> </p><p>"You act as if you have the ultimate choice as to what becomes of this flat, Dr. Watson."</p><p> </p><p>This time John couldn't shield the tremor even if he had tried. Mycroft had prepared for resistance. Would have been surprised if John had accepted such help so easily. What Mycroft didn't expect was the doctor leaving the room and returning a few moments later with the one item that Mycroft had planned on taking from the flat. The short and nimble fingers on John's now steady left hand tightly wound around the neck of the Stradivarius. </p><p> </p><p>"Sherlock is dead, John…the music of his violin holds no answers for you."</p><p> </p><p>John raised his eyebrows the smallest of fractions before narrowing then back into the proper place. Mycroft dared not take a step into what was absolutely a sniper's shot. </p><p> </p><p>"Your brother taught me many things…" John began. He lifted the violin to touch the strings. The slight sound of a pluck hovered in the room. "That people follow patterns, and any deviation of patterns means something more. Notates nervousness or fear, and you need to investigate closer."</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft nodded. "To not just see, but to observe."</p><p> </p><p>John smiled at the phrase. A whisper of the past made fresh again. The violin once more held in only John's grip by its fragile neck. Mycroft felt one uncomfortable bead of sweat begin to form near the right side of his brow. </p><p> </p><p>"The music of his violin won't give me answers," John agreed, and he lifted the violin up like a weapon over his head, and Mycroft stared. "Because it isn't about music. It's about the item itself, and you're terrified about my discovery of that. Your words have ratted you out." </p><p> </p><p>"Nothing I've said today has been out of fear." </p><p> </p><p>John chuckled one more time. "And yet, your pattern changed. You only called me by my first name a moment ago. You <em> never </em> just call me John." </p><p> </p><p>Then with a swing that might as well have been an explosion, John Watson slammed down the side of the violin against the coffee table. The splintered wood showered throughout the flat and Mycroft covered his face in protection. The faint sound of a small metal key surrounded by wax disappeared in the cascading shrapnel but not lost to John who picked it up off of the ruined carpet. </p><p> </p><p>Followed up by a cheer as the doctor threw the still sealed up envelope back in the face of Mycroft Holmes.</p><p> </p><p>"Whatever the hell your part in this is, I don't fucking care," John said. His voice almost as shattered as the remains throughout the room. "Sherlock's alive. He <em> wants </em> me to find him, and I will."</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Regretted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Molly knew...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you as always for your patience with my chapter updates, and to my amazing beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes!</p><p>Kudos and comments are appreciated!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Molly Hooper was built to be fretful. Her dark hair, just long enough to twist around her index and middle fingers when her nerves got too frayed, and small feet that could handle her daily patrol through the world. A world that consisted of the silence of bodies in wintery rooms. Their expressions in various states of resignation that came with the finality of death, no matter it’s gruesome entry or exit. </p><p> </p><p>She was a doctor, and a good one. She was a friend, and a great one. That’s why when John Watson called her out of the blue to invite her to lunch, she said <em> “Yes!” </em> at once. The exhale of relief on the other end of the line helped carry her through the rest of an incredibly depressing morning. Even for the likes of a morgue. </p><p> </p><p>The little cafe was one she had only passed by once in a while. The type of place that was more geared towards the newly in love or the stubbornly single. Molly didn’t fit in either category, so she felt even more out of place as she sat down in the chair held out for her by John. His warm smile enough to remind her of how much she missed seeing it.</p><p> </p><p>“How have things been?” she asked as John settled down in the seat right across from her. His smile faltered a bit by the question. As if he was rearranging the answer to something softer to spare her from the sharpness of the truth, and Molly hated that so many people did that. Assumed that she needed to be handled with care. <em> Mollycoddled </em> as her mother would say, and then laugh at the double meaning. And then say it again. The second time was always a little quieter. </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” John replied back, his expression somewhere in between fondness and something else that didn’t have a name, but it made Molly’s eyes feel suddenly wet. Like stepping out into a meadow of lovely flowers that assaulted her allergies.  </p><p> </p><p>The server swooped in just in time to take their drink orders, and Molly exhaled a breath that she hadn’t known she had been holding when John requested only water. The glass stood alongside her own mug of camomile tea, quietly reminding her that John was staying sober. At least before the sun went down. </p><p> </p><p>“I must admit I have an ulterior motive for our lunch,” John said. “Needed to get some information that I… wasn’t in the best place to ask for until now.” </p><p> </p><p>Their carefully placed lunches were ignored on the table as if they understood that going cold over difficult conversations were always a possibility. Molly’s right hand began to reach over to place it on top of John’s left, but then reconsidered. There was an odd unwarranted intimacy in the act that Molly didn’t want to unpack. So she instead pretended that it was the fork she had been wanting instead, grabbed it tightly, and began to pick at her pasta. "Information about what, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>She chanced a look up to John’s face again and instantly regretted it. There was a relentlessness just under the surface of all of his features. Warned that if you came to close that it would be the last thing you ever did. A dangerously seductive quality that she only had seen in one other person in her life, but that man hadn’t seen her as anything more than an infatuated colleague who thought her mouth was too small without lipstick. </p><p> </p><p>John rolled his shoulders at her question. As if trying it on for size to see if he was able to handle even more weight on top of them. </p><p> </p><p>“About Sherlock’s autopsy,” John replied. “I never asked to see the results because… it seemed fairly cut and dry, yeah? But, some questions have come up that I need answers to…”</p><p> </p><p>John’s voice was fading in and out as a rush white noise permeated Molly’s ears. Her eyes darted from side to side as she pulled out the rehearsed phrases that she’d been warned that at some point she would have to recite back. </p><p> </p><p>“... and it isn’t fair for you to have to go through any of this again. You lost Sherlock too, and I’m awful for…”</p><p> </p><p>Molly wasn’t the type to lie to people. Lies gave her the lurching sense of missing a step going down a staircase, and falling towards something dark and painful and way way too cold. And she didn’t deserve that. No one did. </p><p> </p><p>"... and I did plan to go to the Yard and Bart’s to request the files. Still do, but there’s so much more that seems to be missing and -"</p><p> </p><p>“You weren’t supposed to be that close.”</p><p> </p><p>John stilled at the admission, or maybe it wasn’t technically that. It was hard to tell when Molly’s voice trembled that way. Like a newly born fawn testing out its legs for the very first time. Each word shook, but with that tiny thread of bravery of <em>needing </em>to keep moving forward. </p><p> </p><p>“It was in only one of the plans,” she went on. “That you were able to get close enough to see him like that… to touch him. Feel for a pulse.”</p><p> </p><p>Molly didn’t want to be the one to pull back the curtain to reveal the gears and levers of it all. She never wanted to hurt anyone. </p><p> </p><p>“When you did that,” she continued, barely noticing the way John leaned forward in his chair. His attention pierced her like a needle. “It became real for him. Not that it wasn’t before. He had reasons that I agreed with for what happened, but when you held his wrist before you were pulled away…”</p><p> </p><p>John’s hand was warm when he did what she hadn’t been able to do minutes before. Perhaps this type of touch was what Sherlock had felt then too. John’s strong fingers held the weaker parts of the other person in place until they were strong enough themselves. </p><p> </p><p>“If you go to the Yard and talk to Sally,” Molly whispered. “You’ll find what you’re looking for.”</p><p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Labored</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sally only needed more time in the day to deal with present...and the past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you as always for your patience with my chapter updates, and to my amazing beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes!</p><p>Kudos and comments are the breath of life to a writer. Please offer them if you feel so inclined. ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was exhausting to wait for the other shoe to drop, and yet Sally did so. Made her rounds or pleasantries with a slightly softer edge. That was what made her more approachable as of late. A new attitude to go with the new promotion, and she needed both of them to hang on for the long haul. </p><p> </p><p>She sat at a desk most days now. The world of policing now regulated to tedious paperwork with the occasional burst of racing around. It was jarring at first like anything new, but eventually she got a rhythm down. Wednesdays were the only day of the week that drove her to the point of tedious insanity. Document Day, as most of the other officers, called it. The day when each of the previous week of reports needed to be reviewed and signed off by her personally. The apologetic faces of her former colleagues floated in to deposit stacks of various sizes on any empty spot on her desk they could find. </p><p> </p><p>Sally didn’t see John much at all nowadays. Unless he was somehow convinced by Lestrade to meet up for dinners at the front of the station because Greg was doing too much overflow work. She had noticed the doctor’s steady decline and inevitable comeback. Intervention had played a role as far as she could determine, and that was something to feel relief about. Sherlock Holmes had already taken up too much of John Watson's life before he had jumped. An emotional vampire even after death and that unsettled Sally. Sat heavy in her bones and that wouldn’t do now. Not when there was so much to prove to everyone around her, including herself. </p><p> </p><p>The soft knock on the door pulled Sally out of her musings. </p><p> </p><p>“Inspector Donovan?” </p><p> </p><p>Sally darted her eyes away from the latest report to see that same John Watson looking back at her. There were hints of the man she had once known back when giggling at crime scenes was apparently in fashion. His hair was more honey blonde then, and the lines on his face less noticeable from across an empty room. </p><p> </p><p>“Fancy seeing you here,” she murmured, looking back down at her paperwork. “Lestrade is out on the Darby case if you were looking for him.”</p><p> </p><p>Sally felt John enter the room before she heard the sound of his footfalls. It was something that seemed indelible about how Dr. Watson was. A presence of warmth that seemed to travel around him. Perhaps that’s what caused something as cold as Sherlock Holmes to lean in whatever direction John was located. Even the most poisonous of flowers still needed the energy of the sun to survive. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m actually here to see you,” John answered. “May I sit down?”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t really a question. Sally had been in the field way too long to be that gullible. John Watson was never this polite unless he had a more pointed agenda. Most people weren’t. Strangely this was one of the only things about Sherlock that she truly admired. His bluntness despite what protocol or sensibilities said to the contrary. Qualities that she secretly dreamed that more people had. To be able to call out the wretchedness in people by dirt under their fingernails or the state of their knees. </p><p> </p><p>“As long as it’s quick. You see that I’m being buried at the moment.”</p><p> </p><p>John managed to sit down quietly and Sally kept her eyes on the report. The words blended together in something that no longer mattered, but she wouldn’t cough up the truth until she had no other choice. </p><p> </p><p>“I know about Sherlock being alive.”</p><p> </p><p>The other shoe finally fell, and it was in the shape of a freak in a ridiculously long coat.</p><p> </p><p>“You and four other people at this point, I believe,” Sally sighed. Her dark brown eyes made sure that the door was closed as tightly as possible. “I only found out a year ago myself, so you weren’t the only one kept in the dark for longer than should have been.”</p><p> </p><p>Sally was trained to read people and prepare for potential reactions. In her mind she had known this day would come, but the restraint that John was showing was not in any scenario she had foreseen. She knew John to have a temper, even though it was usually more of a second hand understanding than anything else. Yet here he sat as if she had just proclaimed that the weather was going to be rainer than first expected. </p><p> </p><p>“Is Greg one of the four?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think that Lestrade of all people would have kept that type of thing from you when you were…” Sally swallowed hard, but continued on. “...in a bad way back then?”</p><p> </p><p>John lifted his chin up, and steadied his gaze. “Then why do you of all people decide to tell me now? You hated him...and barely tolerated me up until he fell.”</p><p> </p><p>Sally’s hardened face went soft at John’s words. “I hated him, yes. For a very long time, but after he reached out to me a year ago...after the shock of him appearing at my doorstep and pleading to talk...it changed things.”</p><p> </p><p>She stood up from her chair and walked to the door and opened it. John stood up as well. The intermittent tremor caught Sally’s eye as he headed towards the door, walked through it, and spun around to face Sally once more. </p><p> </p><p>“So that’s it then?” he whispered. “You just tell me this and nothing else? No ideas as to where he is now, or hidden dangers? Was he hurt when you last - “</p><p> </p><p>“He’s with Irene,” Sally said sharply, and John fell silent. “She was in the car waiting for him the night he came to see me. I have no idea where she is, but I believe that she will lead you to him.”</p><p> </p><p>John balled up his fingers into fists and for a fleeting second Sally thought that he was about to explode. She took one step back just in case. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you change your mind?” John asked. His voice was barely there this time. “What did he do or say to make you want to help?”</p><p> </p><p>Sally frowned, then began to push the door closed. John’s face peered back a mirror of the same desperation that Sherlock had given her a year ago. </p><p> </p><p>“That he loves you.”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Enraged</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John needed to compartmentalize, and then he needed to act.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The next chapter is here! Thank you as always to my amazing beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes!</p><p>Thank you for all of your wonderful comments and kudos. They truly mean the world to me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Death was easy for the dead. </p><p> </p><p>They never had to deal with the aftermath. How they seized parts of the living and took them into the darkness. In Sherlock’s case, he took more than was needed. Selfish to an almost comical degree even at the end of it all, and John was left to sort out what remained. The first year had been a cacophony of agony pickled in alcohol. A scream muffled into the neck of a lover or a bottle, with John always waking up the next morning alone. </p><p> </p><p>But that’s what grief always did. It sunk into the soul without a proper exit strategy, and the torture of it trying to escape ravaged its host like atomic bombs. John was used to that type of suffering. That deep rhythmic pain that survived off of rage and sorrow until eventually, little by little, it eroded away. Relocated to a different human-shaped husk that made the mistake of letting it in because it was better than feeling nothing at all. </p><p> </p><p>John found peace in the second year with Mary. She’d allow John to ramble on about old murder mysteries and ignored that John still kept a Belstaff coat in his closet. She was funny and smart and then she was gone. It should have mattered more that she left. That the scorecard of those who fled from John Watson had gained another point on their side, and yet John instead went into autopilot. Apologized with the methodical precision of a surgeon, and all of the clinical coldness as well. </p><p> </p><p>Then Mary put finality to it all by blocking his number. It was the last bit of kindness that she could give, and John gulped it down like broken glass. </p><p> </p><p>In the next few months, he kept his brain and hands busy. The clinic got the lion’s share of his focus to the rejoice of Sarah and all of the other exhausted staff. Occasionally John found himself smiling again in spite of himself. That nagging doubt of something being not quite right in all of this hushed up by much louder noises and that was fine. It was all fine. </p><p> </p><p>Until it wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Until John was following clues like breadcrumbs with no end in sight. Before he knew that impossible became probable when a poem written in a long-forgotten book led to a shattered Stradivarius. A final riddle for him to solve and fuck all of the other casualties. </p><p> </p><p>As to the next steps, that was simple. The solution clicked like a skeleton key finding its home in a rusty lock. Sherlock was alive. Alive and somewhere that wasn't with John. And when John found him, he’d properly kill him with his bare hands. Then somehow, he would figure out what to do next, and John could work with that. Like another leg injury to carry with him day to day with the aid of a cane. </p><p> </p><p>At least that’s what John woke up to in the middle of sweat-filled nights. The looping dreams all with his fingers wrapped around that elegant neck and squeezing until the excuses came out, or he’d be pulled off by the local authorities. Whichever came first. It barely mattered anymore. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps this was all some long and miserable hell that he’d never escape. A slanted reality where Sherlock’s shadowed face peered around every crease of John’s rattled mind to enchant him with eyes the colors of an everlasting rainstorm. </p><p> </p><p>John breathed in and out too much now as if what Sally told him became the cure to three years of aborted respiration. He was a drowning man, and the realization of it all broke through the surface of his waterlogged lungs and cracked ribs along the way. Yet this was the type of glorious torture that John felt when bullet fragments so long ago had splintered through the tissue and bones of his shoulder. The type of misery that caused the body to fight for every heartbeat until there was no blood left. John refused to die alone on that battlefield. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock was alive and needed him. It was as if the world had somehow righted itself overnight and John was clutching onto the surfaces of furniture as the actuality of his old life settled back into place, but with jarring additions to its atmosphere. It was a world where Sherlock loved him, and John would say it back in time. </p><p> </p><p>John just had to find him first.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Intrigued</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Woman will provide the answer. Or just more questions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to everyone who looks on in this story with either mild curiosity or rapt interest. You are a large amount of the reason that I keep going. Comments and kudos are food for my fretful soul...</p><p>Cheers to my beta reader SherlockWatson_Holmes for putting up with me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was all a game to her. A puzzle to be scattered across the various surfaces and jumbled until the one in her web fell over with exhaustion. Then she would creep forward and suck out their intellect. Her laughter was as piercing as her stares, and she pulled people in with the curves of her body that opened combination locks to reveal deadly intentions. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Woman.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That’s what Sherlock called her, and John hated the fact that she was given a title at all - let alone one with such a formidable hue. Now with close to two and a half years removed from when Sherlock deduced that the final problem would begin with a phone call and end with a fall, John realized that it wasn’t hate that fueled his fury towards her. It was something bone-deep that scorched jealousy marks on everything that it touched, and John was just another victim. </p><p> </p><p>But tonight would be a different story indeed. </p><p> </p><p>Sally hadn’t been able to provide any additional information as to where Irene Adler was. So, John did what he did best when at a dead end. He retraced his footsteps and redoubled his efforts. Nose to the trail and hungry as the hounds of the Baskervilles, because a proper soldier never left a man behind. No matter if he might be entering the web of a spider. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re early,” she purred as John set foot into the large hotel room and closed the door behind. The smell of lilac and leather crept into his nostrils. The silhouette stood before him, whip down at her side. “That usually means anticipation for what’s about to happen or more time for negotiation. Either reason increases my fee.”</p><p> </p><p>A small black bag was tossed onto the desk. Its shiny surface glimmered and Irene’s head turned towards it.</p><p> </p><p>“Consider it doubled,” John answered. “Money doesn’t matter to me anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what’s taken its place, Dr. Watson...or should I say whom?”</p><p> </p><p>So she did know who he was. Good. That always saved time. </p><p> </p><p>“You already know the answer to that question, so why ask it?”</p><p> </p><p>The plush carpeting of the room softened the sound of her crimson red high heels as she moved forward. The light of the desk light eventually aided John into seeing her properly now. Ebony stockings and garters with a matching corset and thong that may as well have been sprayed onto her moments before. A John from what may as well been another life would have marveled at such beauty approaching him with such a specific intention. </p><p> </p><p>“Because I insist on my clients saying their safe word out loud before we begin.”</p><p> </p><p>John wanted to laugh off what she was implied, but he had done that for far too long and in too many avoidable situations. </p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock,” John said, so quietly that even he barely heard it. Then a bit louder. “Where is he?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dead, last I heard from every credible source out there. For quite a while too. A shame for such devastating cheekbones.”</p><p> </p><p>There was an itch of impatience at the tip of John’s tongue. He licked his lips to stop himself from saying something that would dismantle this beyond recognition. </p><p> </p><p>“You seem troubled by that” she continued, the whip tapping on her right thigh  “Care to talk about it while I show off my skills, my good doctor?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t pay for a therapy session.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we have a fully functioning couch...unless there’s something <em> else </em> you want me to do with you on it.”</p><p> </p><p>This tit for tat was getting John nowhere, and both of the people in this overpriced sex den knew it. He sensed that he was running out of time, even though technically there had never been a ticking bomb. On his chest or otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>“Not interested in what you have to offer.”</p><p> </p><p>“Clearly,” she replied, mouth in the faintest of smiles. “Thirty months away from him has done wonders for your sexuality…”</p><p> </p><p>The whip dropped to the floor and within a few steps sat on the foot of the bed to take off her shoes. The delicate toes wiggle once they are freed. </p><p> </p><p>“He gave you all the information to find him before you ever came here, Dr. Watson, though this was one of the easiest sessions I’ve had in a while.”</p><p> </p><p>John frowned in spite of himself. His mind raced with what in the hell that even meant. Perhaps the key in the violin? But John had tried to use it in too many locks to recall. </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re speaking about the key - “</p><p> </p><p>“Which I’m not,” Irene interrupted, pointedly. Her face now with a much more discerning expression. “Odd how he thinks you’re so intelligent when the answer was right in front of your face. Shattered into quite a few pieces, as I have been told.”</p><p> </p><p>John caught hold of final words and threw away the insult. </p><p> </p><p>“His violin…”</p><p> </p><p>“For you to assume that he would ever allow it to be broken. You think so little of the closest thing he loved before you existed.”</p><p> </p><p>The key didn’t actually unlock anything. It was just another part of the story. How could John have missed that? The real key had <em>always</em> been the Stradivarius.</p><p> </p><p>“Italy,” John whispered. It all clicked into place. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d hurry if I were you,” Irene whispered back. “He’s been waiting for far too long already.”</p>
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